A Botanical Blunder: The First Case of Sherlock Holmes
by liesefabre
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes' mother is accused of murder, the thirteen-year-old Holmes must prove her innocence with the assistance of his eccentric family. In the process his discovers new facets to his mother and his parents' marriage. Thanks to this event, he is set upon the path to his career as a consulting detective.
1. Chapter 1

A Botanical Blunder:

The First Case of Sherlock Holmes

Prologue

_My good friend Dr. John Watson proved to be an accurate chronicler of my later consulting detective career, but our partnership did not begin until we were both in our late twenties. As he is unable to recount the early development of my skills, I have taken this task on myself with the hopes of rounding out my biography and crediting those who so firmly created the foundation upon which all my later endeavors stemmed._

_- S. Holmes_

When I was thirteen years old, my mother was arrested for murder. As many a philosopher has noted, good can come from even the most disastrous incidents. Despite the horrid circumstances and the subsequent scandal, the event set me on the path I pursued for the rest of my life—for which I am eternally grateful.

But I digress.

One should always start the tale at the beginning, laying out all the pieces as they occurred to ensure a complete and logical assembly with none of the tedious detours or asides so many take when sharing an amusing anecdote. I shall attempt to do so in the following pages just as my dear colleague Watson has exemplified in his own narratives and pray his muse will guide me in my own efforts.

Chapter One

Fists raised, Charles Fitzsimmons and I circled each other. Our classmates gathered around us in the verdant yard between Eton's stone structures and created a cacophony of jeers and shouts, drowning out the usual bird songs I so cherished in my walks to and from class. I ignored them and the sneer contorting Charles' countenance to focus on my opponent's stance. As my uncle Earnest had instructed me, I assessed his strengths and weaknesses to develop a plan of attack. While I was taller than he (I was taller than most of the boys in my form), Charles was heavier. All the same, given his age and size, I knew his blows would be much more bearable than my uncle's.

"You're getting yours today, prig," Charles said with a scowl.

I considered my choices of response, knowing most of the boys surrounding us supported him. In the end, I decided a direct challenge would best create the reaction I desired.

"Take your best shot because it will be your last," I said.

His mouth set in a straight, determined line, he drew back his fist for his first volley and exposed a chink in his defenses. When his arm darted forward, I ducked, and his momentum carried his face straight into the knuckles of my right hand.

A crunching sound informed all that the cartilage in his nose had collapsed.

Blood poured from both nostrils. He raised his hands to his face to staunch the flow, but it continued to stream between his fingers.

The other boys' taunts quieted into a stunned silence, and his wide-eyed gaze shot from me to something over my left shoulder. I spun about and saw one of the praeposters at the edge of the crowd. The circle parted to allow him passage.

He glanced at both of us before he addressed me. "You're wanted in the headmaster's office. Please follow me."

Even though I'd been at Eton only a few weeks, I knew one was not called to the headmaster's office unless something was terribly wrong. I swallowed hard, gathered up my school uniform and books, and followed the sixth-form boy through the yard.

All through my long trek to the office, I speculated on what grievous offense would cause this command performance. If it had been the altercation with Charles, I wouldn't have been selected out. After all, he had been the one to extend the challenge after I corrected our mathematics master's equation earlier in the day. Despite recent efforts to modernize the public school curriculum, good science and mathematics teachers were still in desperately short supply, and having been schooled in both by one of the greatest minds of the nineteenth century, I found myself at least equal to my instructors in many areas.

By the time I reached the headmaster's office door, I had worked myself up into quite a state, certain I was being sent home. Needless to say, my agitation only deepened when I entered and found my father seated in one of the winged armchairs at the far side of the director's expansive oriental carpet.

When my gaze fell upon my brother Mycroft in the chair next to Father's, I drew in my breath and asked, "What happened to Mother?"

All three stared at me, but only the headmaster seemed surprised at my question.

"How did you know this involves your mother?" he asked.

"It's obvious," I said. My words gathered speed as I continued. "Both my father and brother are here. Should it concern only me, perhaps my father would have been called, but to take my brother from college, it involves the family. With my mother being the only family member absent, I can conclude it involves her, and that she is ill or injured. If she had passed, Father would have been wearing black crepe."

"You've deduced the situation correctly," my father said with an unusually sharp edge. "The answer to your question will come in due course. For the present, I need you to pack your things for we will be returning home tonight."

I nodded, recognizing that he had no plans to share the news in front of the headmaster. The school's director dismissed me with a wave of his hand, and I returned to the dormitories to prepare for the journey.

By the time I arrived at my room, my trunk had already been brought down from storage, and Mrs. Whittlespoon, the house dame, was placing my things in it. Only my mother's thorough schooling in etiquette kept me from confronting her about the obvious breach of my privacy.

With great effort, I was able to say, "Thank you so much for beginning the task, Mrs. Whittlespoon. I believe I can complete it."

"Oh now, dearie, don't you trouble yourself at a time like this." She pointed to a set of clothing on my bed. "You go change into your traveling clothes while I finish this up."

After a moment's hesitation during which she turned her attention to the drawer with my undergarments, I retrieved the clothes and carried them to the bathing facilities to change. Even though it had only been a few weeks, I found myself ill-at-ease in the trousers and sweater Mrs. Whittlespoon had selected. Upon closer inspection, I realized my discomfort, at least in part, was due to an increase in my height that caused both the trouser legs and the sweater arms to be slightly too short.

The other part of my discomfort was Mrs. Whittlespoon's remark about "a time like this." I was not certain what event would create such a "time," but considering my father's reticence in the headmaster's office, I would only learn the details when he deemed it appropriate. Mrs. Whittlespoon turned to me when I re-entered the room and placed both her hands on my shoulders for a moment as she scrutinized my attire.

"You look like a right proper young gentleman," she said and smoothed out the sweater over my shoulders. "I'll finish up here and have Jarvis take the trunk down to your father's carriage. I assume you'll want to carry _that_ yourself."

I followed her gaze to my violin case lying on the bed and a wave of guilt swept over me. At my mother's insistence, I had begun lessons two years ago and developed some skill on the instrument. I had hoped to continue the pursuit at Eton, but hadn't found the time to practice as I had promised. How could I report such a failure to her? Assuming, of course, she was in a position to ask—or understand my answer?

All I could do was tip my head to the dame, grasp the case's handle, and step from the room. Had I tried to reply, I knew the tears I'd managed to keep at bay would have made their appearance. Once in the hallway, I took a deep breath to steady myself and headed down the corridor to meet my father and brother.

The two men were waiting for me at the hall's side entrance. Both were "cut from the same cloth"—as they say—with a wide girth and high foreheads. One had only to examine my father to know how Mycroft would appear thirty years hence—a little less hair and a wider girth. Their eyes, however, could not be more different. Not in color, but in sharpness. My father's lacked the keen intellect apparent in my brother's eyes. While I considered Father quite an accomplished man, versed in many subjects—especially history—Mycroft's intense countenance marked him already as his superior.

They faced me as I approached. Mycroft's mouth turned down even more than usual, and his arms were crossed over his chest. My father's jaw muscles were visible cords down his neck.

"Where's your trunk?" my father asked.

"They'll be sending it down directly. Mrs. Whittlespoon is seeing to it."

"That old busy-body still here?" Mycroft asked. "She could never stop chattering about one thing or another. What a relief to be away from her."

Father's gaze snapped to me. "Busy-body? Did you say anything to her?"

"No, Sir."

The older man snorted a "hurrumph" and waved me into the carriage. I paused just inside, trying to decide which seat to take—facing forward or backward. My brother and I usually rose with our backs to the driver. Now given a choice, I selected a position where I could see what was ahead instead of what had already passed. Once seated, I rested my violin case on my knees and checked the view. At the moment, all I could see was an expanse of lawn to the side of my dormitory.

My father and brother conversed in low tones in the space between the carriage and the building. When I caught the word "scandal," I understood why my father had taken both of us out of school. Still, the word offered some hope. Perhaps things were not as dire as I had speculated? Whatever disgrace surrounded my mother, at least she was not on her death bed.

All the same, I couldn't imagine my mother creating any sort of shame. She came from a good family with a good reputation and was a moral, upright person. The most shocking character on either side was my grandmother, the wife of Horace Vernet, the artist. And that was a legitimate marriage. But being French and having the patronage of Napoleon III certainly raised eyebrows in some corners.

A loud clomping at the dormitory door announced the arrival of my trunk. I watched Jarvis carry the item, his back bent low and his knees splayed outward, down the few steps before the carriage driver leapt from his seat and help him take it the last few yards and attach it to the back.

Mrs. Whittlespoon had followed Jarvis and shouted at him and the driver. "Mind now to fasten it securely. I didn't spend all that time laying things neatly just so— Oh my, is that Mr. Mycroft?"

My brother jerked his head in her direction. "Mrs. Whittlespoon."

She rushed down the steps to stand next to him and eye him carefully. "Look at you, all grown up and a university man. I can tell the food there agrees with you." She gave him a rather familiar pat on his pronounced paunch. "How sorry I am that it's under such circumstances we have to meet again."

My fingers tightened around the violin case's handle. Why did it seem everyone else knew what had happened to my mother?

Mycroft worked his jaw but said nothing. My father stepped in to rescue him.

"If you'll excuse us, dear lady. We have a train to catch, and we must be on our way."

Before she could even respond, he pulled open the door and gestured to my brother to step in. He followed directly on Mycroft's heels and shut the door behind him. Mrs. Whittlespoon, however, was not so easily deterred. She stuck her head to the window and gave me one last head-to-toe survey. "You need to be a brave little man for your mother, Sherlock."

Uncertain how to respond, I simply nodded, and my father gave a shout to the driver. The house dame had just enough time to step away from our vehicle before we moved down the school's drive.

Once we cleared the school grounds and were bouncing along the road, I turned to Father. "What exactly has Mother done?"

He exchanged a quick glance to my brother before he shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. "You know how your mother is always providing the village women with her herbal concoctions?"

Botany was one of Mother's passions, and her greenhouse resembled none like any I had seen or read. While others might specialize in flowering plants or possibly exotic items, Mother's all were known for specific medicines or treatments. I had been involved in their care and harvesting since I could follow her along the fragrant rows.

"Did someone get sick from one?"

"No, no. But one of the village women…" His voice trailed off as if he searched for words. "I'm afraid she…"

"Did that woman cause the scandal?"

Mycroft spoke, his voice conveying annoyance—whether at me, our father, or the situation, I wasn't certain. "First of all, you twit, it is rude to eavesdrop. Secondly, the simple fact is that Mother is in gaol, accused of murder."

The force with which this pronouncement hit me was the same as if he given me a blow to the stomach. My insides roiled, and bile surged up my throat. "Stop the carriage. Now."

Either the strength of my words or my visage was enough for them to take me seriously. The driver halted the horses, and I stumbled from the vehicle just in time to vomit into the tall grasses lining the roadway. After a few heaves where I deposited the remains of my breakfast, I took a deep, shaking breath and turned to re-enter the carriage. I almost ran into my father's waistcoat. He extended his hand and passed me a handkerchief to wipe my mouth. As I cleaned my face, I studied his. For the first time that day, I understood the subtle drooping about the eyes and the down-pull of his mouth. I had assumed it was anger. Now I knew it was fear.

"What happened?" I asked.

"The woman was found stabbed to death on our grounds."

"Wh-why?"

"Her husband claims she had an argument your mother—and not the first time. His wife had gone back to apologize, and your mother killed her."

I shook my head. He might just as well have been speaking Chinese to me. I heard the sounds, but the words made no sense. No sooner could I imagine my mother attacking someone or raising her hand in anger to them than I could imagine the moon falling from the sky.

"Surely the evidence—"

"Points directly to her." He placed a hand on my shoulder. "I would have not brought you boys home except that she insisted. She didn't want you two to suffer any type of persecution she fears this scandal will create."

"When can I see her?"

"She's in gaol."

"Surely she can have visitors."

"I forbid it."

I opened my mouth to protest, but one glance at my father's face warned me not to argue with him. Instead, I pressed my lips together in an imitation of his own and boarded the carriage.

The journey back home became a blur. Throughout the trip, I turned over in my mind the idea of Mother as a murderer. I could not conceive of her in those terms and finally came to the conclusion she had been unjustly accused. All the more reason for me to see her. I had to find out what had truly happened, and only my mother could supply that information.

For the first time in my life I resolved to consciously defy my father. Having decided on my mother's innocence, I turned to the problem of how to visit her. I knew where the gaol was. An old, square building on a corner near the edge of the village center, but I had no idea how one visited someone inside. Did one simply knock on the door and ask as when visiting a neighbor? Somehow I doubted it was quite that straightforward. And surely they would look askance at an unaccompanied child.

I was still mulling these thoughts over in my mind when we arrived home. The shock of seeing the house and grounds, so much like when I left them, held me in my seat for a moment. Nothing suggested that my mother was gone. My father had to admonish me to "get a move on." Only then did I retrieve my violin case from beside me on the seat and follow him and Mycroft to our home's entrance.

At the door, the drawn face of Mrs. Simpson, our housekeeper, however, gave notice of the pall over our home.

"Welcome home, boys," she said from just inside the doorway as we entered. "Your rooms are ready for you both. I'll have Mr. Simpson bring up your trunks directly. Are you hungry? I have plates of cold meat ready for you, if you wish."

I shifted my feet, somehow unable to move farther into the entry way. I glanced about at the all-too-familiar surroundings, seeking some solace in them. After all, I was home, but I felt no more at ease there than in a stranger's residence. I glanced at Mycroft to see if he had similar hesitancy, but he was already striding across toward the dining room, obviously prepared to take advantage of the repast Mrs. Simpson had waiting.

My father turned to me. "You can leave your case in the library, then come join me and your brother."

Alone with Mrs. Simpson, she held out her hand. "Pass that to me, master Sherlock. I'll take it up to your room, if you wish."

"Is my uncle about?" I asked, handing over the violin.

Her mouth turned down even further. "He's terribly upset about your mother, you know. He's been keeping to himself for the most part, taking his meals in his workroom. If you like, after you eat you can take a plate to him."

"I think I shall," I said, a small smile creeping over my lips. She'd given me an idea of how I might be able to visit my mother.

"Go on now and have a bit of supper. Your moth—" She stopped herself and swallowed hard. "God bless her. She'd want you to keep up your strength so you could put on the brave face needed at a time like this."

For the second time that day someone had used the phrase "a time like this" to describe my mother's situation. Nothing in the many etiquette lessons my mother had shared with me had provided what was appropriate "at a time like this." I knew which piece of silver to use with which course, the polite greeting for the different classes of people, and what constitute proper dinner conversation; but how did one comport oneself when a parent faced the possibility of hanging?

Taking a clue from Mrs. Simpson and Father, I pushed down the rising anxiety I'd experienced the closer we arrived home and straightened my spine. "Thank you, Mrs. Simpson. I'll join Father and Mycroft now."

Both men had already were at the dining table deep in silent contemplation of their meal of cold roast beef and potatoes. When I entered, Mycroft jutted his chin to a third plate at the table in front of a glass of milk and said, "There's yours."

I slid into my chair and stared at the thinly-sliced meat and potatoes, both with a slight sheen of fat covering them, and my appetite withered. A lump formed in my throat, and I knew nothing solid would make it past. I sipped a glass of milk set next to it instead.

"Aren't you hungry?" Mycroft asked.

Father raised his gaze from his almost-finished plate and studied me for a moment before saying, "You need to keep up your strength, son."

"I'd think you'd devour everything including the napkin after eating Eton's slop for the past month." Mycroft's mouth turned down. "Is it as awful as it was when I was there?"

"It's not that bad," I said, poking the meat with a fork. Bile rose in my throat, and I put my fork down. "The porridge is quite good."

Mycroft gave a slight snort. "Wait until you've eaten it every morning for six years. You'd give your eye-teeth for a bit of egg and toast."

I raised my gaze and met Father's. "What do you suppose Mother is eating?"

He shook his head. "Outside of what we've provided, I suppose whatever they serve her."

"And what's that? Has she told you?"

"I haven't seen her." That statement drew both my and Mycroft's stares. He shifted in his seat and placed his fork and knife onto his plate before speaking. "It's not that I don't want to. She's forbidden it. The only one she's allowed to see her is Earnest."

"Why Earnest?" Mycroft asked.

I, too, was surprised with her choice. While Earnest was her brother and terribly devoted to my mother, for all the time I'd known him, he'd actually been reliant on her.

My father merely shrugged. "Her instructions were explicit. I was not to try and visit her, but to send Earnest instead."

"Did she say anything about us?" I asked. Perhaps another way had just presented itself around my father's prohibition.

Barely were the words out of my mouth before he responded with a sharp, "No."

I wanted to follow up to find out if he meant, "no, she said nothing," or "no, she said not to visit her, " but the firm set of his jaw told me not to pursue the matter further. With a final glance at my uneaten food followed by a roil in my stomach telling me not to even consider sending any of it down, I finished the glass of milk and asked, "May I be excused?"

"You're not going to eat that?" Mycroft asked. When I shook my head, he turned to father. "Pass it to me then."

When he pulled my food to his place, I rose to head to the kitchen.

"Where are you off to?" my father asked.

"Mrs. Simpson asked me to take a plate to Uncle Earnest."

Another shift in the seat. "Very well, but don't stay too long and overtire the man."

In the kitchen, I could see Mrs. Simpson was already preparing a basket for me to carry to my uncle's workroom. More of the cold roast beef and potatoes, some bread and butter, and a crock that I was certain contained more milk. Earnest didn't believe in imbibing in spirits.

"Finished already?" Mrs. Simpson asked. I nodded. "Good, then. Take this on over to your uncle. I'm sure he'd like to see you."

Another nod and I headed out the back door to the building behind the house. As long as I remembered, my Uncle Earnest had lived with us. He'd served with the military in Afghanistan, and, as Mother put it, the experience changed him. He tended to keep to himself, tinkering away at different inventions. More than once, I'd been involved in testing a prototype.

For the most part, his inventions involved gunpowder and other explosives and new ways of projecting them toward walls and other objects. Thanks to his tutelage, I had become quite an adept marksman with a number of his weapons.

Loud clanging greeted me about halfway through the yard. Whatever Uncle Earnest was fashioning involved metal.

The noise also masked a woman's footsteps. I was not aware of her presence until she stepped from the shadows and into my path, startling me. Only because of her reflexes did Uncle Earnest's dinner not drop to the ground when I released the basket.

"Master Sherlock," she said in a low whisper as she handed it back to me, "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I wasn't frightened. You merely took me by surprise." Now out of the shadows, I recognized her as one of the women who bought my mother's herbs. "Mrs. Winston, isn't it?"

She dropped her gaze, but a shy smile spread across her face. "How kind of you to remember me."

How could I not? The woman, a maid at one of the other estates, had been married for just over three years and had been coming to see my mother for almost as long. Always for the same thing.

"My mother's not here. Sh-she's—"

"I know. But don't you worry. I don't believe it for a minute. Your mother is the kindest, most generous woman I've ever met. The whole village thinks so—at least them's that have met her. There's no way she killed Mrs. Brown."

My gaze jerked up to meet hers. "The midwife? She's the one they say my mother murdered?"

"Oh, dear," her hand flew to her lips. "I hope I didn't speak out of turn. It's just— I thought you'd know the whole story by now."

"I only became aware of it today. How long have you known?"

"They found poor Mrs. Brown in your garden over a week ago. But they didn't arrest your mother until two days ago."

I wanted to shake my head, clear my thoughts as these bits of information floated about in a jumbled mess, but another matter required an explanation first. "Did you want to see my father, Mrs. Winston?"

"No, Sir. Actually, I was hoping to see you. Do you know what your mother gives me? I'm almost out and…"

Her voice trailed off and both of us glanced back at the greenhouse—my mother's refuge—attached to the far side of the back of the house.

"I…uh..." How did I explain that while I helped my mother with her plants, the exact nature of their various preparations and medicinal values were not known to me? She had taught me enough to recognize those which were poisonous, but I was not privy those with special properties for "the ladies," as she referred to the village women. "I'm sorry. I don't—"

Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, please, Sir. I need those seeds. I-I can't—" She squeezed her eyes shut and gave a stifled sob behind her hand. "Now with Mrs. Brown gone, the only one left is Dr. Farnsworth, and he won't—"

A sob cut off the rest of her thought. I glanced toward my uncle's workshop and shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Once again my mother's etiquette lessons were failing me. What did one say to a practically hysterical female? Perhaps…

"Please don't cry Mrs. Winston. I'm hoping to see my mother shortly, and I'll ask her about them. Come back tomorrow night, and I'll let you know if I were I able to determine what she sells you."

Her gaze met mine, and she reached out to grasp my free hand. "Thank you, Sir. Thank you." After spinning about on her heel, she rushed back into the shadows with a whispered, "I'll see you after I get off tomorrow night."

I shifted the basket's weight to my other hand and continued on to my uncle's workshop.

I banged on the door with my free hand, but when he didn't respond (I had doubted he could hear me over the noise he was making), I let myself in.

As I stepped the door, an object flew past my ear—close enough that I could hear it as it cut through the air—and imbedded itself in the frame next to my head.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

My uncle rushed toward me, lifting a pair of goggles to his forehead as he did so. "Good lord, my boy, are you hurt?"

I shook my head, still slightly shaken by the close call I'd had with a…I studied the object that had nearly taken off my ear. It was star-shaped with the points honed razor-sharp. Earnest reached over with a work-gloved hand and tugged at the star to remove it from the frame. "You should've knocked first."

"I did. You couldn't hear me," I said, finally finding my voice. "What is that exactly?"

"The Japanese call it a _hira shuriken_ or 'sword in hand.' Of course I made some improvements upon it."

The _hira shuriken_ finally gave to my uncle's wrenching, and he placed it flat on his palm so that I might examine it. My first observation was that it appeared even more dangerous when the whole item could be seen. "What sorts of improvements did you make?"

"Its propulsion." My uncle beamed. "These are considered a minor weapon by the samurai warriors, to be used in conjunction with the sword. They would be thrown by hand toward the eye or hand to further injure an opponent. But I have developed a device to throw these in swift succession and greater force, making them a possible weapon of first resort."

I followed my uncle to his work bench where what appeared to be a large crossbow lay on the table. Several of the star-shaped objects were lined up in a slot along the central arm of the crossbow. My uncle knelt at the back of the bow and aimed it at a target to the left of the door I'd so recently entered. "I'm having some trouble, however, with the trigger. The _hira shuriken_ have to be propelled along the launching arm with enough force for them to travel a great enough distance. At the moment, the slightest touch on the trigger will send them off."

"What was all the banging I heard? Were you working on the trigger?"

"I was straightening the projectiles. If they were flat enough for them to fit more perfectly into the launching groove, perhaps the spring mechanism would not have to be so strong and the trigger less prone to release unexpectedly. Of course, that's not the only issue. Look at how this one bent? They can't be reused at the moment without a great deal of readjustment. I have to work that out before I can share it with my military contacts."

He dropped it onto his bench and pounded it with a mallet.

I held up the basket Mrs. Simpson had given me and shouted over the noise. "I brought you dinner."

My uncle stopped in mid-swing over the star and contemplated the bit of information I'd provided. I was used to his mental ruminations and waited as my mother had taught. A moment later he released the mallet to fall on the table and turned to me. "Why, yes. I am quite hungry. Thank you for being so kind as to bring it. Shall we have a seat and a talk?"

I followed him to the back of the workroom where he'd fashioned a sort of sitting room. A mismatched settee and two armchairs were arranged about a scuffed tea table. Earnest removed the food from the basket and arranged it on the table. After settling into one of the armchairs, he rubbed his work-blackened hands together and studied the items. "Care you join me, Sherlock?"

"No, thank you. I've already had my dinner."

"I'm famished. You can tell me about school while I eat."

I shifted on the edge of the other armchair I had lowered myself into. As much as I wanted to ask him about my mother, I'd learned from long association with him I had to find the right moment to broach the subject. "What do you want to know?"

"Let's start with the basics," he said around a bite of roast beef. "What classes are you taking?"

"The usual, I guess. Latin, mathematics, science—"

"Science? What sort of science?"

"Biology at the moment. Plant life."

He slapped his knee. "You're probably ahead of all the others in that area. Thanks to Violet." At the mention of my mother, he quit chewing and stared at me for a moment. "She's in gaol, you know."

"Father says she's forbidden him to visit."

"It's a bit more complicated than that, I suppose. As you know, he's a magistrate. They've dismissed him from his duties at the moment given the conflict of interest, and she doesn't want his reputation as an impartial court official being questioned by his visiting her in gaol. If he doesn't see her, there can be no talk of him interfering in the case. Besides, she truly worries about him seeing her in that place."

I glanced over my shoulder as I composed myself. My father was not the only one affect by the thought of her in a dark, damp cell. Unbidden tears pricked my lids.

When I turned back, Earnest had been nibbling on a potato he'd speared on a fork. He swallowed. "I'm her solicitor, you know."

"Have you ever practiced?"

"No, but I did complete my apprenticeship. Your father arranged for a barrister to work with me in court. Violet specifically requested me because as her solicitor, I can come and go as often as required to consult with her in gaol." He leveled his gaze at me. "And solicitors often bring young assistants along to carry their papers. Your mother suggested I have you do just that."

"I could visit Mother with you? But Father forbade it."

He dropped the fork onto the plate and reached over to take both my hands. "My dear, dear, boy, your mother gave me specific instructions to bring you along. She wants to see you straight away."

"What about Father?"

He screwed his mouth to one side, as if trying to remember something. "I'm afraid she didn't anticipate your father being opposed to your visiting her. But there are ways around that. In the mean time, you should just keep the information to yourself beyond noting you are assisting me. We simply won't mention with what."

The plan made perfect sense to me. I had often assisted my uncle in his workshop. We both enjoyed tinkering, and I had learned as much about engineering and practical science as I anything my tutors had presented.

"Besides carrying your valise, how else will I help you?"

"I guess we'll have to ask your mother. She has something in mind, I'm sure."

_Something in mind._

My uncle's statement pointed out that my mother already had some design developed. To have her brother be her attorney and me assist him meant she wanted the two of us to work together, but on what?

"If I'm going to be your aide, perhaps I should know more about the case. Father didn't provide much information. I do know it was Mrs. Brown."

While my mother had little interaction with the woman, the whole village knew when the older, thin woman raced past with her black satchel in hand, she was on the way to assist in the birth of another baby. She'd been at the delivery of at least half the town. The other half had been seen by Mr. Farnsworth, the village surgeon. As far as I knew, Mother had little contact with Mrs. Brown. Mr. Farnsworth had attended us at times, but my mother mostly used her herbal remedies for our illnesses.

"How did she…" I swallowed. "Where did they find her?"

"In our garden." He shifted in his seat and glanced at the cross-bow before answering. "Your mother found her. Poor woman. She'd gone out in the morning to check on something and there the Brown woman was, lying face-down in the dirt, the pitchfork in her back. Violet ran back to the house and called for your father. By the time he arrived, she'd removed the pitchfork and was leaning over the woman to see if she could minister to her in any way."

"Was she—?" I took a deep breath before I finished my question. "Dead?"

"Your mother said she was both stiff and cold," he said with a nod. "That she'd been there for a while. Your father sent Mr. Simpson into town for the sheriff. He came, studied the garden, and had them take away Mrs. Brown and the pitchfork."

"He didn't arrest Mother then?"

Another glance away from me. "He came back the next day. After he talked to Mr. Brown. The man said it had to be her because they'd had a fight the day before. She and your mother had always been at odds, but she'd confronted her on market day. The next day, she was found lying in our garden."

I sat still, considering all the information he'd shared. While I contemplated the events as recounted, my uncle focused on the plate of food in front of him. He speared the last bit of potato and ran it around the plate to pick up any crumbs and popped it in his mouth.

"When are you going to see her next?" I asked as he chewed on the piece.

"I do have a lot to do…." His gaze strayed to the crossbow on the table.

I bit my tongue to repress the angry retort rising within me. What could be more important than my mother's arrest? I'd learned long ago, however, forcing my uncle into another direction never ended well. His concentration would still be on whatever endeavor he'd been pulled from and his distracted nature became an annoyance rather than a help. The only way to prevent this was to get my mother's case to become his main focus and that involved his ability to tinker with a problem. That's how Mother had been able to get him to develop a rotating hoe to weed the garden for her.

"You do have a sticky problem with the trigger," I said finally. "Anyway it's too dark to see anything in the garden. It would have to wait until morning."

Earnest's refocused on me. "The garden? You shouldn't worry about weeds there now. I take care of it as your mother asked."

"I'm not worried about dandelions." I took a deep breath to keep down the frustration rising within me. Only a steady hand would steer my uncle to another direction. "I wanted to see where they found Mrs. Brown. Do you have a magnifying glass by any chance?"

"What size? I have quite a collection, you know." A smile spread across his face.

Having nudged my uncle's attention to the true problem at hand, I allowed myself a smile as well. "Can you show them to me? We might need them tomorrow when we examine the garden."

"But you don't need magnifying glasses for that. I told you. I took care of it. I weeded it only yesterday."

My heart squeezed in my chest. What evidence might my uncle have destroyed in his diligence?

I returned to the house dragging the empty basket and my feet. I'd left my uncle gathering magnifying glasses scattered about his workshop. He'd already collected at least five of various sizes. Tomorrow, I would pick at least one to appease him, but its purpose appeared moot at that point. I wasn't sure what I would have found at the site, but I felt compelled to visit it. Something inside me told me it would be important—just not how.

A single candle burned on the kitchen table when I entered through the back door. Mrs. Simpson had obviously left it for me. I placed the basket on the table and picked up the candle to light my way. In the hallway I saw a light shining under the door of the library. After a moment's hesitation, I turned my steps to the room instead of the stairs to my bedroom.

When I pushed open the door, I found my father sitting in his favorite armchair, his feet upon an ottoman. The light I'd seen through the doorway had been a dying fire in the grate. My father's head lolled to one side and rested on one of the chair's wings. A book lay opened in his lap. I picked it up and recognized it as one of his favorite histories of ancient Rome. I marked the place and put it on the table. He rustled slightly in the chair and cracked open his eyes.

"Wouldn't you like to go up to bed?" I asked.

He blinked at me as if he were trying to place me. "Sherlock, son. What are you doing up so late?"

"I was visiting with Uncle Earnest. He wants me to assist him with Mother's case. Mother requested it."

"If your mother requested it…." He sighed and glanced away. In the firelight I caught the glistening in his eyes and the empty wine glass on the floor beside him. He asked the glowing embers of the fireplace, "Why doesn't she want to see me?"

"Maybe—" I paused. How much should I tell him of my visit with Earnest? "Maybe she doesn't want you to see her in…th-that place?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps," he said with a sigh.

"I'm going upstairs. Come up with me."

His eyes slid under his half-opened lids in my direction, and he studied me for moment. "I'm fine right here," he said finally.

"Wouldn't you prefer—"

"I said I'll stay here."

"All right. Good night."

I turned to leave the room when he called my name. When I faced him, he had his arms spread wide, inviting me to embrace him. I set the candle on the table next to him and let him enfold me. The moment was brief. He quickly dropped his arms and gave me a swift clap on the shoulder. "Good night, son."

Reaching the second floor, I paused at the landing and glanced in the direction of my parents' room. Once again an awkward pain filled me—not un-similar to a toothache that may abate only to return with a vengeance. I swallowed hard and continued in the opposite direction to my room.

Mrs. Simpson had seen to the unpacking of my school things and turned down my bed. I set the candle on the nightstand and changed into my bedclothes. No sooner had I crawled into bed than Mycroft appeared my doorway. "What did Uncle Earnest have to say?"

"I'm to be his assistant."

"Did he say anything about me?"

"No. He mostly talked about his new invention. A cross-bow that shoots _hira shuriken._"

"Ah, the Japanese 'sword in hand.'" That Mycroft knew of the weapon didn't surprise me. His knowledge was quite encompassing. His next remark, however, did give me a bit a shock. "If you are to help Mother, you'll need to find out where the woman was killed."

"I plan to visit the garden in the morning with Earnest."

"But determine if that was where she was _killed_."

"I see." After a pause, I asked, "Why don't you come with us?"

The silhouette in the doorway shook its head. "Too many extraneous bits of information. Simply report back to me what you find that seems pertinent."

"All right." I yawned, suddenly exhausted from all that had happened that day. "Good night, Mycroft."

"Good night." The figure turned and pulled the door closed.

I pulled the covers to my chin and lay back in the bed, staring at the shadows on my bedroom ceiling and contemplating my brief conversation with Mycroft. For the most of my brief life, given our age difference, he had ignored me. When he did direct his attention to me, it was usually to criticize me—usually for my naiveté. Perhaps for the first time, he had given me something to actual chew on.

If Mrs. Brown hadn't been killed in our garden, how had she gotten there? Obviously, I needed to determine the first to be able to answer the second. A part of me wanted to dress and head to the garden immediately. Only the reasonable half of my brain told me to wait until morning when the light would allow proper examination.

Moonlight broke through the clouds and a shaft fell across the floor, spotlighting my violin case. My fingers itched to pull the instrument out and practice the last piece I'd been working on with my mother. An accomplished harpsichordist, we had been working on a duet and one of my last promises to her when I'd left for Eton was that I would have it perfected by Christmas holidays. My roommates had not appreciated my efforts and so after the first week, I'd dropped my practicing. I now vowed I would practice at least an hour a day so that when my mother was released from gaol, I would be able to have completed my promise to her.

I fell asleep reviewing the musical score and my fingering.

It seemed I had barely gone to sleep when someone was shaking me. I cracked my eyes open to find Uncle Earnest leaning over me.

"Time to dress and be on our way," he said in a low whisper.

"To where?" I checked out the window. The sky might be brightening slightly, but it was still very early-even in comparison to morning rising in Eton. "It's still too dark to examine the garden."

"The gar—. Didn't I tell you we are going to visit your mother this morning? I promised her I would bring you as soon as I could after your arrival."

"Why so early?"

"The best time to see her alone. Besides, that way I can bring her and the staff breakfast. Bringing breakfast to all of them helps persuade them to provide us little time alone. It was your mother's idea. Get dressed and come down to the kitchen. Mrs. Simpson should have the basket prepared."

With that instruction, he left me to complete my duties. After dressing in what I considered appropriate attire for a solicitor's assistant, I joined him in the kitchen where Mrs. Simpson was putting the finishing touches on another food basket. The aroma of cinnamon and tea assaulted me and caused my stomach to growl. Earnest treated the prison staff well if he was providing them with Mrs. Simpson's cinnamon buns. I must have appeared hungry, because the moment she saw me, Mrs. Simpson pointed to a plate on the table. "Don't you worry, Master Sherlock. I saved one for you."

Before the sentence was even completed, I was at the table and lifting the fluffy bun oozing cinnamon and sugar to my lips.

I was licking my fingers by the time she pounded a cork into a crock. "The tea should still be warm by the time you get to the gaol," she told Uncle Earnest. She observed me devour the bun, turned around, then faced me again, a plain bread roll in her hand. "Put this in your pocket for later."

Earnest barely gave me time to stuff the bread into my coat pocket before he ran his arms through the basket's handles and lifted it from the table. Cocking his head to an item on the floor. "Time to be my assistant. Carry my valise outside."

I grabbed the case's handles and followed him out the door.

Once in the carriage, Earnest leaned his head back onto the seat and pulled his hat over his eyes. "Let me know when we get to town."

His snoring commenced shortly after we turned onto the main road. I considered trying to follow his example, but decided I was too keyed up to sleep—despite the early hour. I was on my way to see my mother. In gaol.

What if she were found guilty? Murder was a hanging offense. That much I knew. Somehow, I knew she would prefer death to spending her remaining years in gaol, cutoff from all the things she enjoyed. I spent the rest of the time staring out the window, considering all that would be missed if locked away from the world.

The coach jerked to a halt about an hour later, and Earnest roused himself in mid-snore in response. Eyeing me, he asked, "There already? Come along then."

When we stepped up the stairs into the square brick building housing the county's criminals, a guard opened the main door and waved us in.

"Quite a brisk morning, eh, Mr. Sherringford? Who's this with you?"

"My assistant."

The guard eyed me for a moment before turning his attention back to my uncle. I had learned a long time ago because of my age, no one paid much attention to me, and it was the same in this situation. A moment, later, however, I understood his true interest in my uncle.

"The weather's turning. I can feel it in my bones. Mornings like this, a man could use a bit of a nip to keep off the chill."

"Quite right, quite right," Earnest replied and slipped a small bottle out of his coat pocket and into that of the guard's. "For medicinal purposes."

The man placed a finger on the side of his nose with a nod. "Let's step inside so's I can inspect what you're carrying."

With a deep breath, I hefted my uncle's valise a little higher and entered a gaol for the first time.

In later years, I had many an occasion to visit any number of prisons to interview both the accused and convicted, but like most major events, the first one provides the standard by which all others are compared. To this day, the right brew of odors—sweat, dust, urine, and mold—will draw me back to that tiny antechamber where Earnest set his basket on a rickety rectangle of a table and motioned me to do the same. With the first whiff, I can still see the green mold in the intersection between the room's brick walls and stone floor and hear the distant _plink _of dripping water and far-off moans of the prison's inhabitants.

Immediately, the same despair and melancholy settles about me as on that day.

Earnest, for whatever reason, appeared not to be affected at all by the surroundings—perhaps because he had already experienced them and had grown used to them. He and the guard joked and chuckled as they pulled some sliced ham, thick bread, and butter from the basket—his share of the breakfast offering. The jailer even produced a tin cup from somewhere for his portion of the still-warm tea in the carefully wrapped crock. He quickly added a dollop from the flask in his pocket.

Once provisioned, the guard opened a door at the other side of the room and shouted down the hallway. "Mr. Sherringford's here to see his client."

"Have him wait in the visitor's room," a woman responded with a similar shout.

We followed the man down the hall to a wooden door he unlocked. Benches lined the walls, and three spindly tables, each with four unstable stools occupied the center of the room. While designed to accommodate a much larger crowd, at the moment Uncle Earnest and I were its only occupants.

The approach of more than one set of footsteps sent my heart beating faster. A second door opened, and my mother stepped into the room, followed closely by a heavy woman in a blue uniform. My first impulse was to run to her and bury my head in the rough, grey cloth of what obviously was some sort of prison apron over one her dresses, but my uncle placed a heavy hand on my shoulder—whether to restrain or warn me, I wasn't sure.

"Mrs. Raymond," my uncle said with a smile. "How are we this morning?"

"Not so bad, not so bad. It's been a quiet night," she said. "But I am famished."

"Of course you are, and I have brought some breakfast for you and the other matrons."

She accepted the basket from my uncle and stepped backward toward the door. "I'll just take this down to our station to share with the others. I'll be back in a shake."

"If you don't mind, we'll just visit until you return."

Once alone, the two moved quickly to the table farthest from both entrances, and I followed, placing the valise on its top. Unburdened, I now turned to my mother, and she quickly enfolded me in her embrace. After a moment, she placed a hand under my chin and studied my face. "My dear Sherlock," she said with a sigh. "I do believe you've grown at least an inch since we left you at school."

Her lips turned up in a smile, but the skin about her eyes continued to droop as they had when she'd entered the room. I also scrutinized her face and caught grayness I hadn't seen before. But perhaps it was also that she wore no powder or rouge and had her hair pulled back into a severe bun. Other than that these changes, I caught no difference. She was still the tall, elegant woman I had always known. As Mycroft resembled my father, I resembled my mother in height and leanness, not to mention the pronounced sharp nose of our French ancestors.

"We only have a little time before the matron returns," Earnest said. "Let's get to it."

When I turned back around, the valise was on the floor, and the table set for breakfast, including a cloth covering it. No wonder the valise had been so heavy.

"How kind of Mrs. Simpson to think of this touch," she said, fingering the linen. "Please thank her for me."

Before sitting, she cleaned her hands on a wet cloth set on a stool next to her place. "One must continue to practice good hygiene, regardless of the situation," she said with another of those forced smiles.

"That reminds me," Earnest said and dug about in his coat pocket, and dropped something into her outstretched hand, which she quickly pocketed. "I hope that keeps you for a while."

She turned to me and finally gave me a genuine smile in response to my obviously quizzical study. "Soap. More important than gold here. I've had mine stolen twice already."

I watched as she cut the ham and chewed it slowly. As sure as I was she was ravenous, she had not lost her sense of decorum. "Uncle Earnest told me you wanted to see me. Why?"

"Because, my dear Sherry, I need your help to get out." She sipped the tea. "Unfortunately, now that the sheriff has arrested me, he sees no reason to continue resolving the crime."

My mouth dropped open. As much as I wanted to help my mother, I failed to see the logic behind her choice. Mycroft was older and much smarter than I.

"Don't underestimate yourself," she said, as if reading my mind. "Your father is too well known, and Mycroft lacks a certain…finesse. You have both the logical skills as well as the ability to collect additional information as needed."

She took a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to me. "I have written down everything I can remember about that morning when I found the body. Try and determine what other bits should be collected to show my innocence."

"I'll study it later," I said and slipped it into my pocket.

"Violet, dear," Earnest cleared his throat, "we must discuss your appearance before the Assizes."

Before thinking, I drew in my breath. The Assizes were a major event in our village. My father, being a magistrate, was expected to accompany the mayor and other dignitaries to the receiving of the judge and opening of the court. How much time did my mother have before this date?

"Another time, please, Earnest. The matron will be back shortly, and I don't want to think—"

As if on cue, the door slammed against the stone wall with a _boom,_ and the matron stood in the doorway. "The superintendent will be coming in soon. You have to leave."

"Right away, madam. Right away," my uncle said.

He stood and gathered up the remains of the breakfast, motioning me to retrieve the basket from the matron.

As soon as all was put away, Mother shook Earnest's hand and patted me on the head. "I'll see you both soon."

She stepped to the doorway and faced us. Her eyes glistened, but her voice remained strong. "Thank you for coming." And followed the matron into the hallway.

When the door shut soundly, Earnest jerked on his waistcoat. "We must be going as well."

The hallway now buzzed with activity, with women marching in lines in both directions. Earnest and I pressed ourselves against one wall to let one group pass us. All were dressed a similar style of rough-woven blue dresses and gray apron.

"Convicted prisoners," Earnest whispered to me. "Heading to breakfast I would guess."

They appeared to be assembled according to age, the oldest at the front of the line. As the last of the column passed us, I caught the last one—a young girl of about eleven or twelve—glance in our direction.

A moment later, she stumbled and fell to her knees. I rushed to her side.

"Oh, thank you sir," she said in that rough accent associated with the lower classes.

With my supporting her elbow, she rose and studied me and my uncle. "You're not criminals, are you?"

I chuckled. "No. We're here to see my m— my uncle's client."

"He's a barroner, then?" A glance at her shoes. I could see then why she stumbled. They appeared several sizes too big for her—as if she were wearing boxes. "I wish I had a barroner. I might not be in this place if I had."

"A 'barroner'? Do you mean a 'barrister.' He's a solicitor, but perhaps he can help you find one. What were you accused of?"

"Liftin' a pocket watch off an old man." Her jade eyes widened and filled with tears. "But I didn't. Honest I didn't. He'd given it to me only moments before, but I think he was a little forgetful and didn't remember. That's why I had it."

My mouth dropped open. Never had I heard such a travesty of justice. How could anyone think such a young, innocent girl could commit such a crime? I sought my uncle's gaze to see if he was as indignant as I. His head gave the barest of shakes. Whether it meant he could not help or that it was too late, I couldn't tell.

"I'll see what I can do," I whispered.

"Oh, thank you, Sir. You're a regular right gent, you are." Her arms wrapped around me before I could even protest.

"I—"

"Constance," the matron at the front of the breakfast procession shouted down the hallway to us. "No fraternizin' with visitors. Get back in line."

"Yes, mum. Right away, mum."

She skipped to her place in the column, and the group shuffled away. We followed behind them for a moment before turning into the antechamber where we'd entered earlier.

Once in the carriage, my stomach grumbled. I had been too worried about my mother to consider food at that time, but now having seen she was relatively safe, and even given some ideas on what to consider in her defense, my stomach had found its voice. It had long ago digested the cinnamon bun I'd eaten in the kitchen. Recalling the roll Mrs. Simpson had also provided me, I reached into my pocket and found it…empty.

Earnest caught my movement and shook his head. "I should have warned you, I suppose. Recall where your mother is. These are not members of the gentile class with whom you're accustomed to socializing. They are deceivers, criminals, not to be trusted."

"So Constance—"

"Is a pickpocket, and truly did steal that man's watch. Be glad you didn't have anything more than a roll in your coat pocket."

I reviewed my brief encounter with Constance. How had that girl been able to take my roll without my knowing it? It seemed to be a skill that could prove useful in certain situations.

At the moment, however, I had a more pressing issue. I removed my mother's notes from my pocket and studied them. Halfway through, I stopped to re-read her account of finding the body of Mrs. Brown. I glanced at my uncle. Still sleeping.

He roused himself when I called to him. "What's the matter, Sherlock?"

"My mother's clothes. The ones she was wearing when she found Mrs. Brown. Do you know where they are?"

"I would suppose Mrs. Simpson has them."

"We need to examine them when we get back."

"Of course, dear boy, of course," he said with a yawn.

I opened my mouth to ask him about the magnifying glasses, but found he'd fallen back to sleep.

No matter, I already knew my next step.


End file.
